Of waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then, When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kiss Of the barbarian ravishers, shall plain, In useless struggles, growing faint to death! How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again! But, even then, an echo of my breath Through the long years, with trumpet inspiration, Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death! And, if no more they may be called a Nation, Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath; Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolation Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth! Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth. Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve, To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom; Which others neither _can_ see, nor believe! But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb; As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave Their fateful nets! Well, let the earth resume This failing garment of my flesh; I feel My present life has not been without bloom, Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal! And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath been Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal A forfeit life: If spoken words, like wind Have passed away! My fame seared, in its green; I leave, at least, _one_ testament behind, Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween (However callous, and unjustly blind), It dies, along with the old Ghibelline! No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live; Her thoughts, and very language be of mine! Yes, what my _City_ was too false to give, A _world_ will yet award me! So, I end: My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve, Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend. Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive! Honour me in my ashes; this thou _must_! Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories live The all, that shall make glorious my—dust; My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee! Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: First And Last! Let me return to liberty; I found it but in Paradise—with Thee! The Last Sketch.